


crowding the hitter

by rooonil_waazlib



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Shrunkyclunks, heart-eyed bucky barnes, heart-eyed steve rogers, lbr everyone is heart-eyed in this, meet ugly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-02-04 09:29:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18601753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rooonil_waazlib/pseuds/rooonil_waazlib
Summary: But the trash monsters are coming closer, and Bucky’s going to bepissedif he has to get his grate replaced tomorrow.He turns off the panini press, heads into his bedroom, and pulls his college baseball bat out of the closet, pausing only to pull on the slacks he’d just taken off. He’s going to go defend his shop, and he’s not going to do it in his underpants.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> the working title for this fic was "bucky barnes and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day." so.
> 
> ([my tumblr](http://rooonil-waazlib.tumblr.com) is still the best place to reach me.)

It’s not that Bucky’s had a terrible day. It’s just that he’s had...a  _bad_ day. Big difference.

Right off the bat it had started wrong: he’d underestimated how much ground coffee was left in the tin, so instead of a nice strong cup to prepare him for the day, what he’d had to suck down was weak and too hot—which, of course, meant he’d had to stand in a mile-long line at the hipster cafe around the corner for a mediocre americano even though he’d asked for a drip.

When he got back to the shop he’d discovered that he must have set his elbow in spilled coffee or something at the cafe, so he’d had to change out of his crisp white shirt and get it prepped for a scrubbing later, even though he knows he’ll end up sending it to the dry cleaner anyway.

Finally he’d managed to get the shop open, but he was half an hour late. He kind of doubted that anyone would have come by, but he did have to return a couple of phone calls before eventually getting to settle in at the sewing machine in the back corner of the shop. It had a direct sight line to the door, so he’d be ready if a client came in, but in the meantime he had Dr. Rinjati’s suit to finish up.

In the afternoon he had rolled out the mannequin with the new dress he’s been designing for Kylie. The drape of deep green velvet was much easier to see in the daylight, so he had rolled it all the way to the front of the shop, near the windows. A few people paused to watch as he set pins, adjusted the deep scoop of the back.

She had been supposed to come by an hour before close for a fitting. He’d stayed an extra forty-five minutes longer than usual when she didn’t show; finally he’d texted her only to receive back a terse  _sorry, can’t make it after all._ No excuse; no rescheduling. He knew she was busy, but usually she gave him a little more warning. Or any warning at all. Briefly he wondered if he’d pissed her off somehow, but he was pretty sure he’d been a good neighbor the last few weeks: no crazy parties; no smelly takeout; not even an accidental momentary loud noise like that time he’d dropped a whole crate of mason jars and shattered both his foot and all of the jars.

Anyway, Bucky had packed up for the evening, rolling the mannequin back to the back room; he had locked the door, pulled shut the grates, and headed upstairs. On his way by her door, he had knocked, but she must not have been home. That, at least, made him feel better.

Then he’d gone to make dinner, but the leftover stirfry he had been planning to finish had gone bad, so he’d had to toss it down the drain. His garbage disposal had spat ground-up rancid oyster sauce water all over him, ruining another shirt. He had slapped together a sandwich and stuck it in his panini press, then prepped his shirt and took off his pants. Then he had stood over the panini press in just his tank top and boxer briefs, waiting for his dinner to be ready.

 

This is where he is standing when he hears it. It’s not much, at first, just a groan and then a crash outside. It could just be a car crash, and that’s what he thinks it is for a long moment—until the second groan, the second crash. Looking over his shoulder out the window, he watches as something gets flung past his line of sight. It looks, he thinks, like a jumble of those white plastic things that hold six-packs together.

Turning, Bucky walks to the window and looks out. Down the road amble four or five...creatures, maybe, is the word, covered in trash. They’re big, some of them, and crunching over cars and chained-up bikes. One of them is smearing its way along the sidewalk, rattling shop grates. It seems to be made mostly of old zip-top baggies, but despite the number of times Bucky’s torn through one of those by accidentally pushing his toothbrush too hard into a corner, this monster is strong, strong enough that it warps the grates on the butcher down the block. In the half-breath before he turns away from the window, Bucky sees a pile of old denim get blasted apart by a beam of blue-white light. The Avengers must be on their way.

But the trash monsters are coming closer, and Bucky’s going to be  _pissed_ if he has to get his grate replaced tomorrow.

He turns off the panini press, heads into his bedroom, and pulls his college baseball bat out of the closet, pausing only to pull on the slacks he’d just taken off. He’s going to go defend his shop, and he’s not going to do it in his underpants.

Stopping just long enough to stick his feet into his boots and yank the laces tight, he heads out his door and down the stairs, twirling the bat to loosen up his wrists. It feels good in his hands, solid, familiar. For a long time it had been an extension of his arms, swinging it as natural a movement as walking. The pink polka-dotted athletic tape he’d let his little sister Becca wrap around the handle before his last season warms quickly under his hands, and he squeezes it tight for a second before stepping out the door.

They’re bigger than he thought they were, which is not a feeling Bucky’s used to. Back when he’d played college ball, he and his teammates had all been working out four hours a day and some of them had been...supplementing. He’d walk into classes and struggle to fit in the seats; he’d look at people and have a hard time not staring at how puny their wrists were, how comfortable they seemed folded up in the theater seats of lecture halls. Meanwhile he took up two seats if he could wrangle an aisle, or three if he couldn’t, just trying to keep his knees from concussing the person in front of him.

He does remember, though, being six years old and meeting Shaq. He’d asked him if he was a real giant, and Shaq had crouched down—still several feet taller than Bucky—and asked if he was a real hobbit. Bucky’s dad had laughed himself practically sick.

That’s how it feels right now, standing on the sidewalk looking up at these trash monsters. There are more than five of them and they are each more than ten feet tall, and Bucky’s got a wooden baseball bat that has never before today felt wimpy in his hands.

But, well, he’s out here now, and that baggie monster is coming closer, and Black Widow has her legs wrapped around its neck but she looks like maybe she needs a hand. He can see a gash on her cheek, cutting down her jaw.

So he swings for its knees.

 

Bucky thinks maybe he’d make a good superhero. He’s pretty fast and strong enough to bash the hell out of some monsters. The biggest problem is that he doesn’t have any kind of super healing, so instead he’s got to be vigilant about dodging.

But it’s kind of cathartic, actually, being out here. It’s a good, hard workout, and he gets to beat the tar out of something that’s provoking him. He manages to handicap the baggie monster; Black Widow rolls off of it as it topples. She uses his back as a springboard where he’s half-turned to protect his face. Luckily he’s crouching, or he’d go flying when her boots hit in the meat of his back and launch off again.

He swings his bat up again, uppercutting the baggie monster. Its head explodes, and he realizes it never really was a living creature, just a huge swirling mass of plastic loosely gathered together. Some kind of magic must be animating them, but it doesn’t seem strong enough to stand up to a vigorous beating.

Behind him he hears something galloping toward him; he turns and twists his hips into his swing, letting the motion whip his bat forward. He clocks a bundle of old electronics that shatter satisfyingly, spraying loose recording tape and black plastic all over the street.

Ducking when a massive stack of AOL install CDs grabs for him, Bucky swings again, and again—and again, because this one just keeps coming back for more. Finally he really steps into it, swinging at it the way he’d learned to swing for a home run, something that will hit a ball hard enough to blast it higher and farther than anyone will be able to catch.

Rainbow splinters launch out from the place where his bat connects, and he’s about to slip past the debris when his bat smacks something else on the followthrough. He looks over his shoulder, already trying to change course, to bring his bat close for another swing.

His stomach drops, and he lets the bat fall slack into one hand.

Captain America is out cold on the ground beside him, a spiderweb of cracks in the side of his helmet. Cracks that are distinctly baseball bat–shaped. Distinctly Bucky’s fault–shaped.

Swearing under his breath because he’s not sure if Captain America can hear him, and he doesn’t think he’s allowed to swear in front of Captain America, Bucky grabs him by the wrist and yanks.  _Christ,_ he weighs about ten tons, and even though last week Bucky’s boot camp class had had them squatting semi-truck tires he really has to strain to drag Captain America’s dead weight into the foyer of his building. He pulls a muscle in his back, because that’s the kind of day he’s having.

It’s quieter in the foyer, and Bucky lets Captain America’s arm flop onto the grimy linoleum. He crouches by Captain America’s head and gingerly removes his helmet, turning his head so that he can inspect the spot where he’d hit him. He isn’t bleeding, at least not on the outside, but he’s got a hell of a lump already, and a black eye. Even like this, he’s so handsome Bucky kind of wants to die a little. “Oh, shit,” Bucky mutters, slapping lightly at Captain America’s cheeks. “Captain? Wake up, come on, man, please, I need you to wake up—shit, come on, I really don’t want to be the one that has to go to jail for killing you.”

Captain America moans a little and squints his eyes open. They’re so blue. Bucky has to force himself to stop thinking about what tie he’d suggest Captain America wear to match, because this really isn’t the moment. “Hey,” he says instead, “hey, good, you’re awake. You think you remember your name?”

“My name?” Captain America mumbles. His black eye is maybe fading a little. “I’m Steve. What’s _your_ name?”

“I—me?” Oh, shit. Bucky’s in for it now. Captain America wants to know his name, probably so he can press charges. He should give a fake name. That will make it harder for Captain America to track him down, right? “I’m...Bucky.”

Fuck.

Well, at least it’s not his legal name.

“Bucky,” Captain America says, and if Bucky didn’t know that Captain America is concussed due to an unfortunate baseball bat incident, he would say that he sounded...lovesick.

But Bucky knows he’s concussed, so he holds up two fingers. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Two.” Captain America starts to sit up, and even though Bucky protests and leans on his shoulders he manages to do it without much effort. “Thank you for saving me.”

“Saving you?” Bucky asks, letting go of Captain America’s broad shoulders and backing off. He squints into Captain America’s blue eyes, but they look like they’re focusing properly, like they’re tracking his movements okay. Maybe this is a good way out: make Captain America think he hadn’t seen what hit him in the head, just that he had found him there, knocked out, and dragged him to safety. “I...Yes. I saved you. You’re welcome.”

“Bucky.” And now Captain America turns to him, places his hand on the bare skin of Bucky’s shoulder. He’s very warm and very, very dreamy. He leans a little closer, and Bucky does too, without thinking about it. His lips are so—soft-looking, inviting, red, plump. _Let me count the ways._ “Bucky, you were doing great out there. But I need you to stay here now, where it’s safe.”

Bucky blinks. “But my shop,” he says. “I need to defend my shop.”

“Your shop? Which one’s that?”

Bucky points at the wall to his left. “That one. The tailor shop right there. Barnes Bespoke Tailoring.” Saying it out loud to Captain America makes Bucky think about how unoriginal the name is. Maybe the awning will get torn off and he can rebrand.

“Bucky,” Captain America says again, making to stand up. Bucky gets up too because he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to handle being on his knees in front of an American icon. “If I promise that I will do all I can to keep your shop intact, will you promise to stay indoors?”

Bucky nods, and Captain America sticks his hand out.

“Let’s shake on it.” His voice is so deep. His hands are so strong. His gaze is so clear, so clearly not-concussed. Leaning down again, he picks up the helmet that Bucky’d let roll away. His fingers find the dent, and he presses lightly; the spot dips and returns, like it’s made of rubber instead of hard plastic. He holds it out to Bucky. “Would you mind throwing this out for me?”

Swallowing, Bucky takes it, wondering what his guilty expression looks like and if he’s wearing it right now. Behind him he can feel the bat he’d thrown aside. Can Captain America’s superbrain match the dent to the shape of the bat?

The inside of the helmet is damp with Captain America’s sweat. Bucky promises himself he won’t be weird and keep the thing, or like, smell it or anything.

He turns, and Bucky watches him walk back to the front door. The shoulders of his uniform are filthy from where Bucky’d dragged him. He has the cutest little ass Bucky’s maybe ever seen. He turns back, and Bucky jerks his eyes back up to his face. “Thank you for saving me, Bucky.”

Bucky can hear the leather of his glove as he tightens his hand on his shield, and then he’s gone. But Bucky didn’t get his number or anything, and who knows if Captain America’s superhealing will keep his brain from bleeding on the inside. So that’ll be something for Bucky to stress about for the next few days, which is just. Just great.

 

When he gets back upstairs Bucky turns the panini press back on before anything else. He kicks off his shoes and leaves Captain America’s helmet on the coffee table, then takes his bat back to his closet and washes his hands. Then, while he waits for his panini to finish cooking, he opens his front window and looks out.

Most of the trash monsters are moving on—the ones that are still alive, at least—and the Avengers are chasing after them. It doesn’t take long for Bucky to find Captain America in the chaos, his shield flashing in the setting sun as he pummels a bundle of wrapping paper. He’s right in front of Bucky’s shop, which from this angle looks like it’s maybe still intact.

“Steve! Let’s go!” a voice yells, and Bucky looks around in time to see Falcon swoop past, to admire the neat spin he makes as he shakes off a flapping pile of binders. “Reports are coming in that they’re heading for Manhattan!”

Bucky leans on the sill to watch as Captain America beheads the wrapping paper. “I’ll catch up,” he calls back. “I’ll eliminate what’s left here and then catch up.”

Bucky’s heart does a weird flopping thing. Captain America is keeping his promise to protect his shop. His shop. Barnes Bespoke Tailoring. That Bucky owns. Maybe it’s a small comfort, that his shop won’t get destroyed, but he’s glad for it nonetheless. Just as long as Captain America doesn’t die on his doorstep. That probably won’t look good for business.

Also, that would be Bucky’s fault probably, so that’s not ideal either.

Behind him the panini press shuts off, and he pulls together his dinner and eats it standing by the window, still watching as Captain America battles a dwindling number of monsters. Bucky can see that he’s talking, but he’s had to close the window as the smell of trash drifts up toward him, so he can’t hear.

Finally, as twilight draws in and the streetlamps flicker on, the number of trash monsters drops to zero. Captain America stands there for a few more minutes, looking up and down the garbage-strewn block, long enough that Bucky puts his dish in the sink and pulls on his boots again. He grabs a water bottle out of the fridge and heads downstairs to give it to Captain America, and also maybe his phone number because it would be nice if his day had one nice thing in it, but by the time he steps out the front door, he’s gone.

Bucky sighs, surveying the carnage, and goes back inside. After the day he’s had, he doesn’t really feel like starting the clean-up effort.

 

In the morning Bucky’s alarm wakes him from a weird feverish dream where he’d been measuring a fully uniformed Captain America for a suit, but every time he turned to write anything down his notepad was missing, and then he’d forget the number and have to measure again. His blaring alarm isn’t quite enough to make him forget that he’d measured Captain America’s inseam exactly fourteen times.

And then he tries to get up, and fails, because apparently he’d thrown out his back dragging three hundred pounds of unconscious superpatriot out of harm’s way. He does manage to shut off his alarm, at least, and lies there in his bed for a long time, wondering if this is how he’ll die, starving to death in his bed due to a baseball bat-related incident.

Finally he figures out a way to hobble to the bathroom for some ibuprofen, walking bent over, his torso parallel to the floor. He sits on the tiled floor in there for a long time, until the pain subsides enough that he can get up and start the coffeemaker. This, of course, is when he realizes that he’d never gotten around to buying more coffee yesterday.

God, he might as well go the fuck back to bed.

Before he does that, he takes an opportunity to look out the window. It’s a fucking warzone out there: trash everywhere, old paper cups and shattered CDs and cans that should have been recycled and tumbleweeds of wrapping paper and zip-top baggies. Bucky takes some pride in knowing he’d been partially responsible for the defense of his block. The street is also completely deserted, which is pretty unusual at this time of morning, in this part of Park Slope. A lot of people should be on their ways to work, but maybe they’re all lying low in case the monsters come back.

Detouring by the bathroom to grab the pill bottle in case he needs more later, Bucky climbs back into bed. Maybe if he had done this yesterday none of the horrible things that happened would have happened. Then again, if he’d stayed in bed, he would never have met Captain America.

Of course, a small part of his brain suggests, he also would never have accidentally potentially murdered Captain America. The great state of New York doesn’t have the death penalty, but Bucky thinks it’s possible that murdering Captain America might prompt them to bring it back.

 

He’s fully rolled up into his blanket watching old episodes of Carpool Karaoke, grumpy because none of them are as great as the Bruno Mars one, when his phone alerts him to a text message. Bucky almost ignores it, because his mood is even worse than it was yesterday, but finally it occurs to him that he’s got to get up to pee anyway, so maybe he should be at least semi-human and look at his notifications while he’s doing it. He doesn’t normally sit to pee, but he’s still not standing quite straight, and this way he can look at his phone and not have to aim.

_Kylie: hey sooo sorry about yesterday, had to fight my way out of work and still didn’t get home until really late last night. can i come by today?_

Bucky thinks about saying no. He really does. Then Kylie sends another text:

_Kylie: i’ll bring coffee. and lunch._

The truth is, thinking about making lunch right now pretty much makes Bucky want to die. Plus, coffee.

_Bucky: ye sure ill be in the shop in 10. come thru the back_

He doesn’t bother to change out of his pajamas. Kylie’s seen him in worse, and he doesn’t know if he’d be able to get pants on anyway. He does, however, take the back stairs that lead straight into the back room so that anybody who might be on the street doesn’t catch him dressed like an absolute schlub.

Once there, Bucky turns on just enough lights to see by and sets about pulling the gown off the mannequin. The ibuprofen really is helping some; the only thing he can’t quite do is bend over all the way to the floor. He can crouch, though.

Kylie shows up a few minutes later, slipping through the door he’d left propped open for her and kicking the doorstop out of the way so it swings shut behind her. She’s pretty, in sort of a bland way, her blonde hair usually up in a ponytail. Mostly she wears old graphic tees and jeans, which cover the frankly astonishing body she’s got, but sometimes Bucky can convince her to step into a gown, and she becomes a completely different person, glamorous and enchanting.

He thinks, sometimes, that if he’d ever wanted a wife with whom to start a two-kids-white-picket-fence life, then maybe she’d be his type, but they’re better off as friends.

“Nice shirt,” she says as she puts a cardboard cup holder on Bucky’s worktop. While she sets down a huge paper bag that’s emanating the delicious scent of Chinese noodles, he looks down at himself. He’s wearing his favorite crop top, the one that says,  _I WOULD PREFER NOT TO._

“Thanks,” he replies. “And thanks for the refreshments.”

She grins at him, and he notices as she does that she looks a little worse for wear herself. There’s a cut on her cheek that vanishes past the ridge of her jaw. When she notices him looking, she tips her chin forward and to the side so he can see it better. “I fell down the stairs last night on my way home from work. You want to see the bruise on my ass?”

“Always,” Bucky tells her, and while she starts getting undressed he turns to the coffee and sucks down at least a quarter of it in one go, then sets it aside so he can unzip the side of the gown. When he turns back she’s hiked up one side of the back of her panties and is admiring a very impressive purple bruise there. It might be bigger than his whole head. “Wow, shit. Looks painful.”

She shrugs. “I’m just lucky I didn’t hit my head or anything.” Her eyes go to the dress he’s holding. “That for me?”

Coming closer, he holds it as low as he can, open in her direction so she can just step into it. “Sorry I can’t get lower,” he says as she puts a hand on his shoulder and brings one knee up high. “I threw out my back yesterday.”

“Oh yeah? Were you out there smashing monsters?” she asks. “You know, you can’t swing like you did in college. Your back isn’t used to that kind of thing anymore.”

He gives her as much of a glare as he can muster while he straightens up, creaking. She slips her arms through the cap sleeves while he limps around behind her to tie the bow that will hold the whole bodice to her chest. “Actually, I did it when I was dragging Captain America to safety.”

She twists to look at him, tugging the ends of the straps out of his hands. “You what?”

“Well.” He clears his throat. “I guess technically I beaned him pretty hard myself. Thought I’d killed him. So I dragged him into the foyer and then he, I don’t know, he thought I’d saved his life. Really I was just trying to cover my ass until I could figure out if I’d given him a brain injury.”

“Bucky—”

“He was fine, he was fine, though,” Bucky rushes on, nudging her to turn again so he can finish tying the bow. “He woke up in, like, two minutes, and he was back out there fighting a couple minutes later. I just. I guess he thought something else hit him.”

“Were you aiming for him?”

“What!” Bucky tugs on her ponytail a little for that. “Of course I wasn’t. He must have come up behind me while I was mid-swing.”

Once he finishes with the bow, he steps back, letting her settle the gown on her hips and shoulders. She turns this way and that, looking at herself in the mirror. “I can’t believe you lied to Captain America.”

“I didn’t lie,” Bucky protests, walking around to the other side of her so he can see how the fabric is lying over her hip. She really does look beautiful in this color. “I just—he thought I saved him, and I just. Didn’t, you know. Correct him about it.”

“I think that still counts.”

Bucky reaches out, tugging at the cowl on the back of the dress so that it lies properly at the dip of her waist. He’s going to need to add a few more gathers, just to keep it lying where he wants it to. Kylie’s got a faint red line on her skin from where her bra lay before she took it off to get into the gown. “If I’d left him in the street, he was probably going to get stepped on by, like, a shambling mess of old pens. I probably did really save him.” Kylie gives him an imperious look that he doesn’t really know how to interpret, so he changes the subject. “Where are you going to wear this one?”

And then she does it—the thing, the transforming thing—as she steps off the little platform and settles her shoulders back. She’s always pretty, but now she’s gorgeous, and poised, and a little haughty. With the right hairstyle, Bucky thinks, she could be Marilyn Monroe. “A friend of mine’s going to a charity gala thing,” she says. “He asked me to be his arm candy.”

“Oh yeah? He need a suit for it?”

Kylie smirks at him. “I think he’s probably going to wear his standard black tux, but I’ll send him your way if I can convince him to change his mind,” she says.

Bucky leans against the worktop, watching the fall of the gown as Kylie paces forward, then back. “He’d better be handsome,” he says. “You can’t go to a gala looking like you do with an uggo.”

“You think I’d be friends with an uggo?” Kylie laughs. “Don’t worry, my friend is like a Greek god in every possible way.”

“Hey, wait,” Bucky says as she turns. “He can’t be too handsome, either. You’ve got to be the center of attention.”

Kylie smiles in a way that makes him think she’s hiding something. This friend of hers is more than a friend, then, but less than a boyfriend. “Don’t worry. In this—” she waves at the gown, raises an eyebrow—“I will be.”

 

Bucky has to take another day off to rest, his back making it very clear that he will be sorry if he doesn’t. Mostly he lies flat on his stomach on the floor, trying not to cry from the pain.

By the time he gets up, two days after the trash attack, his block has been cleaned up. A couple of ibuprofen are all he needs to get out of bed, and he actually manages to get into a dress shirt and slacks without giving up. He still doesn’t have any ground coffee in his apartment, so he has to stand in line at the hipster coffee shop again. This time he makes sure not to touch anything or lean anywhere, and makes it back to the shop with his white pressed shirt still pristine.

Bucky’s just settling down in front of his sewing machine, setting himself an alarm so he remembers to get up and stretch in an hour, when his phone buzzes in his chest pocket. He almost doesn’t check it, almost lets it go while he starts on the lapel for Dr. Rinjati’s suit; but after a minute he decides maybe he should have a glance.

He’s glad he does; what’s there is a message from Kylie that reads, _my friend will be coming by today. i managed to convince him to get a new suit. you’ll_ _take care of him, right?_

Smiling, he leans on the sewing table so he can peer into the back room, where he can just see the gown, back on the mannequin so he can figure out where to add the gathers it needs. _for u, anything_ , he replies, _but ill make sure he doesnt look as good as u_. _promise._

 _:)_ is all he gets back, but that’s enough; he puts his phone back in his pocket and straightens the suit jacket on his table.

It’s only about an hour later that the bell over the door rings; Bucky calls, “just a minute, have a look around,” and resolutely does not look up from the turn he’s making. Only once he’s successfully completed the turn does he pile the fabric on his lap onto the table and get up.

A pair of enormous shoulders is bent over the table where Bucky’s laid out the few ties he makes. Bucky walks into the man’s peripheral vision so that he’s not too spooked when he speaks, and sticks his hands in his pockets. “Welcome. Are you in the market for ties?”

The man jerks, and straightens up, and Bucky’s mouth goes dry. It’s Steve Rogers, Captain America himself, those big blue eyes and sharp cheekbones Bucky had been enchanted by not three days ago. “Uh, no, I—I don’t think so?” he says, his fingers rapidly rolling up the tie he’s holding. He puts it down on the table and pats it once, like he’s tucking it into bed. “I actually—I came to say thank you.”

“Thank you?” Bucky echoes, because he really doesn’t know what to make of that. He’d sort of assumed he was never going to see Captain America again.

“Yes.” Steve Rogers, Captain America himself, takes a step closer. “You saved my life, so I thought I should—well, yeah.”

Bucky swallows. “I, you know, I didn’t really,” he finally says. “I should be thanking you, actually. You protected my shop. I didn’t even have to replace the grate.”

Steve Rogers, Captain America himself, blushes pink all up his cheekbones. He runs an awkward hand through his hair. “Oh. Well. I—you deserved it. You were the only person out there helping. And you were actually doing a good job about it.”

“Oh, I, well, thanks,” Bucky says. Then, because his mouth is an asshole who hates him, it asks, without his permission, “if I had been doing a bad job would you have let my shop get destroyed?”

“What? No!” Steve Rogers, Captain America himself, rushes half a step closer, and then stumbles back. “I just meant. I would have helped anyone. It’s just. You—you saved me, and you were helping, and you…yeah. That’s all I meant.”

As if determined to destroy him, Bucky’s mouth continues without him: “Actually I…am the reason you needed saving in the first place.”

“What, because you beaned me?” Steve Rogers, Captain America himself, shrugs grandly, leaning a hip on the tie table. “I got in the way of your bat, and if you hadn’t pulled me inside, I probably would have gotten crushed. So. Still counts, I think.” Bucky stares at him. “Um, also, I did come for a suit. My friend recommended you. We’re supposed to go to a gala together, and she told me I’ve worn my tux too many times. She said you’d know…?”

“Yeah, okay, yeah—” and then it hits Bucky, exactly what the fuck Steve Rogers, Captain America himself, is talking about. “You—and _Kylie?_ ”

Steve Rogers, Captain America himself, raises his eyebrows. “What?”

Bucky waves at his general—everything: his blue eyes, his cheekbones, his goddamn _shoulders_. “ _You_ ,” he says, “and _Kylie_. How do you even—where did you even meet her? How long have you two been—uh, banging? She doesn’t even—you’re not even her type.”

Furrowing his brow, Steve Rogers, Captain America himself, shakes his head. “I’m everyone’s type,” he says. “At least, according to Natasha. But I’m not sleeping with anyone, and never anyone named Kylie.”

For a very long moment, Bucky just tries to picture him standing next to Kylie, or, or touching her, or—and then the image swims a little, changes, and it finally clicks. “Kylie…is Natasha Romanoff,” he says, weakly. He doesn’t quite have to sit down, but he does clutch the end of the tie table for a second before looking down at his palms. “I’ve held Natasha Romanoff’s breasts in my hands.”

“Oh.” When Bucky looks up at Steve Rogers, Captain America himself, he’s still a little flushed, but he’s looking down at the tie table, tracing the edge of one with the tip of a finger. “So you’re—you and Nat, or Kylie, or um—that explains why you…” he waves a hand at Bucky’s face. “When you thought I was sleeping with her. I got it. Sorry. I didn’t mean to—miscommunicate.”

Bucky’s mouth panics a little. “I’m not sleeping with her,” he says, fast, “I’m not—I wouldn’t, she’s—” terrifying, is the truth, now that he knows who she is. Not that she’s his type anyway. They stare at each other for a few seconds, then Bucky clears his throat. “Um. I just—sometimes when I’m fitting her for something, you know, I have to…” He makes a motion with his hands like he’s weighing something, shifting something, but quickly stops because it looks just terrible. “Okay. You need a suit, you said? To match her—her dress?”

Steve Rogers, Captain America himself, clears his throat. “Yeah. She said you’d be able to help.”

“Yes.” Bucky turns, looks at the door to the back room. “Let me—let’s talk about style, and fabric. And I’ll show the gown I’ve got for…for Kylie. Natasha.”

 

Bucky seriously considers texting Kylie-Natasha as soon as Steve Rogers, Captain America himself, walks out of the shop. He hovers over his phone for several minutes, wondering if he’d be blowing her cover by putting anything in writing, and finally sends only: _hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh???????????????????????????????????????_

She doesn’t respond for a while. Finally, he receives: _i told you. greek god. he’s nice, huh? :)_

Bucky does not deign to answer that.

That said, after work, as he’s walking toward his apartment door, his feet betray him and walk him across the hall to Kylie-Natasha’s door. His fist also betrays him, and knocks.

As if she knows he’s coming, the door opens only a second later. Kylie’s no longer Kylie; her hair is red, like in all of those press photos of the Avengers. Bucky doesn’t know how he didn’t recognize her earlier. It’s so obvious, now.

“Was it a wig?” he asks. He’d been indignant up to now, maybe even angry, but she smiles at him the way she always has, and it deflates that little balloon in his chest.

She pulls him inside, shuts the door behind him. “Yes,” she says.

She still has that cut on her cheek, and suddenly he remembers her riding on that baggie monster’s shoulders. “You used me as a springboard.”

“You’re the perfect shape for it,” she replies, drawing him further into her ordinary little apartment, her small strong hand in his. “You’ve got that big broad back, you know? And I could see you had a good low stance.”

“That shirt has been soaking in bleach for three days to get the bootprints out of it.”

Laughing, Kylie-Natasha fills a glass of water and passes it to him as he takes a seat at her bar. “Liar,” she says, but it’s fond. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

He sighs. “It’s okay. I understand why.” They look at each other for a very long moment. “What am I supposed to call you now?”

“Hmm.” She sucks on her lower lip, looking off to one side thoughtfully. “Kytasha?”

“Jesus Christ.” Bucky takes a sip of water; Kytasha is just about the whitest name he’s ever heard in his whole goddamn life. “I’ll just—I’ll just call you Natasha. That’s fine. I’ll get used to that.”

She smiles at him. “So what did you think of my friend Steve?”

Bucky looks at Natasha for a long moment; something about her tone makes him—“you heard everything we said, didn’t you?” he asks. She tips her head, but doesn’t answer one way or the other. “Did you _bug my shop?_ ”

“Of course not,” she scoffs, and despite himself, despite his brain reminding him that this is one of the most successful spies in the world, he feels like she’s telling the truth. Then Natasha twists her mouth to the side. “I _might_ have been listening. Through Steve’s phone.”

Staring at her, Bucky puts his water glass down on the counter. “That’s—isn’t that, like, a huge invasion of his privacy?”

Natasha shrugs carelessly. “It would be, if he hadn’t asked me to do it,” she says. Bucky raises his eyebrows. “He wanted to know whether I thought you liked him or not.”

“He…?” Bucky blinks. That sounds almost like—like Steve Rogers, Captain America himself, _likes_ Bucky. Wants to—to get to know him, or…Bucky swallows, acknowledging the thought lurking at the very edge of his mind, even if it’s completely absurd: Steve Rogers, Captain America himself, may be interested in Bucky. In dating him, maybe. That’s why people ask for their friends’ advice, isn’t it? He takes a sip of water, half-spinning with the thought.

 “He fell in love with you the moment he woke up with your face hovering over him,” Natasha says. “He wouldn’t shut up about how you saved him.”

“I—well, I, I didn’t, really,” Bucky stammers.

“No,” Natasha agrees. “What you actually did was use his skull for batting practice.”

Despite knowing this himself, it still makes Bucky blush to hear it. “I. Well. He was—he was behind me, and I. Didn’t see him.”

Natasha puts her hand on his wrist; he looks down at it. It’s just the same as always, small, her nails bitten to the quick. “He doesn’t blame you,” she says. He looks at her; her eyes are serious, maybe a little amused, but serious nonetheless. “I was only exaggerating a little bit when I said he fell in love with you. He really thinks you might be his person. I don’t know what that means, but he keeps saying it, so.”

“Jesus,” Bucky says again, rubbing a hand over his cheek. “I, uh.” He blinks as all of this sinks in, staring at the cabinet to the right of Natasha’s stove. “Wow. His. His person.”

“I think,” Natasha leans closer, drops her voice, like it’s a secret, “he’s a bit of a romantic.”

Bucky takes another big sip of water, trying to process all of this. “I…I guess I wouldn’t have expected that,” he says after a bit.

“I know,” she agrees. “It’s kind of amazing how different he is from his public persona.”

“Yeah, I mean, I figured that. I just.” He shakes his head, tipping his water glass to one side and then the other. “I guess I just didn’t think it covered things like—like this.”

Natasha shrugs. “It’s amazing what we all hide from other people.” When Bucky raises his eyebrows at her, she smiles. “I know, I know. It was more of a general statement, though.” She looks at him for a long moment, her eyes that same dark green they’ve always been. “So what do you think of him?”

“You mean besides the obvious?” Bucky asks. “‘The obvious,’ meaning, obviously, that he looks like a flagpole I’d like to climb.” He sighs, takes a sip of water so he doesn’t have to see Natasha’s scrutiny. “He seems really…great. I don’t know. I’ve only met him twice, and one of those times he was pretty boggled.” Natasha waits, looking at him. Thinking about what else to say, he actually jumps when his phone blings from his pocket. Bucky straightens up and pulls it from his pocket, looking down at it as Natasha turns away to clear up the counter.

It’s Dugan, wondering where Bucky is. All the boys are at the bar already, and he’s late.

“Fuck,” he mutters, “fuck, I’ve—I’ve got to go. Thanks—uh, Natasha. I’ll…see you soon.”

Natasha nods. “Yeah. Thursday, right? To fit that gown?”

“Right.” Bucky slips off the stool and comes around the end of the countertop to throw an arm around her shoulders and kiss her forehead. “Yeah. Thursday.”

 

Three days later, Bucky finds himself on his knees in front of Steve Rogers, marking off where to hem the suit pants. It’s a great fabric, charcoal grey with a chocolate pinstripe just light enough to be visible, just dark enough to set off the blue of his eyes. It’ll go perfectly with the pocket square Bucky’s planning to make with a spare bit of the fabric from Natasha’s gown.

“So you…” Bucky says, not really sure how he’s going to end the sentence.

“Who, me? Yeah,” Steve Rogers replies. “Yeah.”

Bucky clears his throat, wondering where they go from here. Steve Rogers probably doesn’t want to talk to him, or he wouldn’t have shut down Bucky’s fumbling attempt at conversation. So. He’ll just—finish up in silence, then.

Amazing how very wrong Natasha had been.

He puts his head down and keeps working, keeps marking, tugging the hems this way and that over Steve Rogers’s shoes to make sure he gets it just right.

“Do you—” Steve Rogers starts, and Bucky looks up at him, waiting for him to finish. Steve Rogers blinks down at him and for a moment they hang, suspended in this moment, the two of them. Then Steve Rogers clears his throat. “Uh. Do you and Natasha—Kylie—hang out often?”

“Oh.” Bucky straightens up, steps back so he can see how the pants look from afar. “I, you know. Maybe once a week or so. I don’t get the impression that her schedule is really all that open. For friendships, or whatever.” Steve Rogers sticks his hands in the pockets of the pants, hunches a bit. It doesn’t effectively make him look any smaller, but Bucky could see how it might help him vanish when he doesn’t want a journalist to notice him. “Can you take your hands out of your pockets? I can’t see the line of the pants that way.”

“Yeah, sorry, yeah.” Steve Rogers does as he’s asked, wipes his palms down the front of the pants. “She’s—she likes you. I’ve heard her talk about you before.”

Bucky looks at him as he moves to kneel again, to fix the left hem of the pants. “Oh yeah? Hopefully nothing bad.”

“No! No, of course not,” he says. “God, no. She actually—” he breaks off, laughs a little. Bucky sits back on his heels and looks up at him. Steve Rogers laughs again, a blush climbing over his ears, and reaches up with one hand to comb his hair back with his fingers. “She’s actually been trying to set me up with you for, I don’t know, months.”

“She what.” Bucky’s chalk slips, marking the back of his hand with a long pink line. “She…?”

 “I know! I know. And just—just think, I’ve been saying no to blind dates from her for ages, and then you, you just show up in my life to save me.” He grins with one side of his mouth, looking rakish, young, charming. Bucky’s heart quails. “It’s like fate, or something.”

“Fate,” Bucky echoes, still on his knees in front of Steve Rogers.

Steve Rogers shrugs. “Or something.” He blushes a little more, but doesn’t stop looking at Bucky. “So, uh. I’d ask if you wanted to go to the gala I’m supposed to be wearing this suit to, but…I already said I’d go with Nat. But maybe you’d…want to go to a baseball game with me?”

The sheer nerve of this suggestion makes Bucky’s mouth drop. So now he’s crotch-height in front of Steve Rogers, mouth open.

“To watch,” Steve Rogers clarifies, “not to play. I mean. You’ve got a killer swing, but…I’m not allowed to play baseball against regular people anymore.”

Bucky chokes and snaps his mouth shut. “Well I clearly _don’t_ have a killer swing,” his mouth says, “or you wouldn’t be here to make that absolutely insane joke.”

Steve Rogers grins charmingly. “Good thing I was wearing a helmet, then, huh?”

“I can’t believe you,” Bucky grumbles, getting to his feet. “I really—really can’t believe you.”

“That doesn’t sound like a no to me.”

Sighing, Bucky gives what he hopes is a disapproving glare. It might be tempered, because Steve Rogers has got his very muscular arms crossed over his very ample chest, and Bucky’s kind of a little distracted. “Yeah, alright. It’s not a no. You got a particular game in mind?” he asks, and then a horrible thought strikes him. “You’re not a Yankees fan, are you?”

The look of deep disgust that crosses Steve Rogers’ face comforts him some. “Jesus Christ, gross,” he says. “No, god, no. I was thinking of the Mets–A’s game next week.”

“Oh.” Bucky nods. “Okay. Yeah. Okay. That, uh. That works.”

 

Steve— _people who know me call me Steve,_ he’d said—meets Bucky outside the stadium. He’s leaning against a pillar, wearing an overly tight, dark green sweater, the sleeves rolled up. Bucky is relatively certain he’s wearing nothing underneath it, which is frankly reckless of him. On his head is a blue cap with a white logo that Bucky can’t make out until he’s standing right in front of him; it’s a Brooklyn Dodgers hat, because of course it is.

“Hey,” Steve says, smiling at him and straightening up. “You look…good. It’s just a ball game, you know.”

Looking down at the sailboat-printed short-sleeved collared shirt he’s wearing, Bucky shrugs. “I’m going on a date with the guy whose every move is documented for the entire nation to see, and I’m not allowed to dress up a little?” he asks. “My mom’s going to see me on TV, Steve. She can’t see me looking like a complete schlub.”

Steve tips his head back and laughs, and shit, he’s got such a nice smile. Bucky stares and doesn’t even care when Steve catches him at it. He can feel the blush on his face, but there’s a matching one on Steve’s, so whatever. “I’m trying to be inconspicuous,” Steve says, and gestures to his hat. “I have a hat, and everything.”

“Yeah, and all these fucking muscles.” Bucky reaches out and touches Steve’s shoulder and immediately regrets it, because Steve is, on top of being solid and squeezable, very distractingly warm. Bucky clears his throat. “Should we—head in? The game’s starting in a few.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, looking intently at Bucky, and for a second Bucky thinks they’re going to kiss, leans a little forward towards the possibility—

Someone jostles him from the side, and he has to take a half-step to get his balance back, putting him directly into the ticket line. Their eye contact breaks, and Bucky takes a second to collect himself while Steve sidles into line next to him, pulling their tickets from his pocket. They inch forward, side by side, not speaking much.

“It’s, uh, a nice day for it,” Bucky says, gesturing to the wide blue sky above them and internally kicking himself for talking about the fucking weather. “Maybe a bit hard for visibility for the players, but—we’ll have a nice time, at least.”

“Absolutely,” Steve says as he passes the tickets to the bored-looking older man wearing a visor and carrying a high-pitched barcode reader. A minute later they’re inside, and just a few minutes after that settling into their seats, partway up the stands between third base and home plate, high enough to see the tableau of the game but not so high that they won’t be able to see any of the play. “So, I’ve got to ask. Where’d you learn to swing a bat like that?”

“College,” Bucky tells him. “I played Div 1 at UNNY.”

“Wow.” Steve pulls a bag of gummy worms from the pocket of his jeans and curls it up so that it fits in the cup holder between them. “No wonder you knocked me out. You still play much?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Not a lot. Pickup games here and there with my old teammates, but nothing too intense. I can’t, anymore—I injured my shoulder my first year in the minors. Scuppered my career.”

“You hurt your shoulder? And you were still out there the other day, swinging like that?” When Bucky looks over, Steve is shaking his head. “That’s…a lot of people wouldn’t have done that. A lot of people didn’t do that.”

It makes Bucky blush again. “There was a big stack of AOL CDs that was threatening my neighborhood,” he says. “I just did what anyone would have done.”

But Steve is shaking his head. “Nobody else was out there, Bucky,” he says, and leans back in his seat so he can prop his foot up on the row in front of them, looking pensively out over the field. “Jesus, I should have taken Nat up on the offer to set me up with you sooner. How was I supposed to know she wanted to set me up with a guy with a heart like yours?”

 

The date’s going pretty well, Bucky thinks, as they hit the seventh inning. He hasn’t said anything completely insane yet, and Steve keeps giving him these big grins, and nudging his knee against Bucky’s, and now they’re sitting here sharing a slushie like they’re an actual couple.

He’s just settling back into his seat with a bucket of popcorn when it happens. Beside him, Steve mutters, “oh my god,” and shuffles around a little, his long legs bumping into Bucky’s. The popcorn tips; Bucky just barely manages to catch it. Neither of them is really the right size for this.

“Hey, what, quit squirming,” Bucky says, trying to settle into his seat, save the majority of the popcorn, and sip the slushie at the same time.

“Bucky,” Steve hisses, and Bucky turns from the slushie because that tone in Steve’s voice is pretty worrying.

Steve points up at the jumbotron. Ice drops into Bucky’s stomach just as his face heats up; he’s pretty sure he knows what he’s about to see.

But it’s worse than he’d thought: instead of just Steve up there, instead of a _CAP LOVES THE METS_ graphic, it’s both of them.

Both of them, and a pink frame with little hearts all over it.

It says _KISS CAM_ , and Bucky sort of blacks out maybe for a second.

When his soul returns to his body he realizes that it’s been long enough that people are starting to boo them. Someone behind him nudges his shoulder, pushing his body toward Steve’s. Bracing himself, Bucky looks over, but Steve’s actually…half-laughing about it, waving sheepishly to the crowd. He smiles at Bucky, open, and takes his hat off. “You want to?” he asks, gesturing up to the jumbotron.

“KISS HIM. KISS HIM. KISS HIM,” chants the crowd around them.

Steve’s lips are a little chapped, sweet-tasting from the gummy worms and the slushie, and so, so warm. Bucky loses track of everything for a moment—just one, and then someone slaps him on the back, and the crowd is screaming like the Mets have just scored a grand slam, and Steve’s laughing into his mouth, and his hand is on Bucky’s knee, and Bucky has to sit back or he might have a heart attack and die.

He knows he’s blushing, and Steve’s color is high too; but Bucky can feel that the smile on his face matches Steve’s, and Steve’s arm is still around his back, and he leans back in for another kiss.

“Dear Mom,” Bucky mumbles against Steve’s lips, “catch me on the nine o’clock news tonight. You’ll never believe what I was doing.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mind the change in rating, lads! past this point lies nothing but filth.

They hit a bar after the game, have a couple of beers and some nachos. And then Steve takes the subway back to Brooklyn with Bucky and insists on walking him all the way to his door. Bucky’s acutely aware of the fact that Natasha’s probably watching them through her peephole across the hall, but he kisses Steve anyway, because Steve’s got those blue eyes and those big hands on Bucky’s waist and—

Bucky invites him in.

They land in the kitchen, because Bucky’d made some noise about another beer or water or coffee or something. He doesn’t fully remember. It probably doesn’t matter anyway, not with how they go stumbling into the fridge door because they’re kissing too much to pay any attention at all.

Steve’s waist is so _tiny_ , is the thing, narrow under Bucky’s hands, something he can really hold onto. And when Bucky does just that, Steve makes this—this sound, low in his throat, and the only word Bucky’s got for it is _needy_. It lights something up in the back of Bucky’s brain, something big and growling, and before he knows it Steve’s backing him into a chair and climbing over his lap, and Bucky’s letting him do it, biting at his mouth.

“Jesus,” Bucky mumbles as two-hundred-some-odd pounds of superhuman settles on top of him. Steve sits back a little, just enough that they can see one another without crossing their eyes. He’s bright-eyed, his lips slick and swollen. “Jesus, look at you.”

“This okay?” Steve asks. Bucky’s about to say yes when he settles his ass just south of Bucky’s groin, most of his weight pressing Bucky down into the chair, pinning him.

Bucky can’t help but stare up at him for a long moment. “Fuck,” he finally says, “fuck, Jesus, yes.”

“Good.” Steve runs a hand through Bucky’s hair, a bit tacky from the sweat from ten innings in the sun, his eyes lazy. “That’s so good, because I like it here.” And then he wiggles, just a little, and Bucky’s brain fully shorts out.

“Me too,” Bucky says, or thinks he says. He’s a little distracted, his hands finding the creases where Steve’s legs meet his hips. Steve stretches into his touch, pressing his whole body against Bucky’s front, his eyelids drooping as his pupils dilate visibly. Bucky gets the distinct impression that he’s about to get eaten alive, and frankly he thinks he’s okay with it.

Steve tips forward, and they’re kissing again, slow, slick. It’s exactly the same heat as at the baseball game, building on itself at such a glacial pace that Bucky doesn’t immediately realize his spine is being slowly set on fire, his skin too small for his insides. They’re not even touching skin-to-skin, except at their mouths, at least not until Bucky sneaks a hand up under that ridiculous sweater Steve’s wearing, placing his palm deliberately on the crest of his hipbone, his thumb finding the divot of his abdominal muscle.

Steve’s waist is so small that Bucky’s fingertips just brush the ravine of his spine between the muscles of his back, and suddenly Bucky’s desperate to touch more of him, his warm smooth skin. He’d sit up if he could, if Steve’s weight wasn’t so immense on him, but instead he settles for getting both hands under the sweater and gripping at Steve until he mumbles high in his throat and—and shimmies his whole body forward, his groin tipping until it comes into contact with Bucky’s.

It slams through him then, really hits, and Bucky groans, going a little wild with it, yanking at Steve’s sweater until it’s on the floor and then spending about four times as long getting Steve’s pants open as it might take under normal circumstances—“normal” meaning only “a time when Bucky’s not feeling him up like a pickpocket after a particularly dick-shaped mark.” It doesn’t help that Steve’s wriggling and grinding around on him, distracting him and at the same time making it hard to hold onto his zipper.

And then—there it is, Steve Rogers, Captain America himself’s superdick. Flushed and hard and leaking all over Bucky’s favorite seersucker shorts, and Jesus fucking Christ, Bucky’s mouth actually waters. He looks up, intending to tell Steve how bad he wants to touch it with his mouth, but his eyes get caught on Steve’s fucking supertits, which Bucky’s hysterical brain also wants his mouth to touch, and it all gets so tangled up in the frantic arousal in him that he’s rendered completely speechless.

He gets his forearm around Steve’s back and leans in to press his mouth to the soft place under Steve’s sternum, which is right fucking there, right there for him to touch. Steve gasps, his chest jumping under Bucky’s mouth, and shifts, and although Bucky can’t see what he’s doing he feels it when one of his hands threads into Bucky’s hair, not guiding, just touching. As Bucky kisses his way toward Steve’s nipple, his heartbeat pounding against his lips, Steve’s hand tightens, just a little. It makes Bucky moan, makes his dick twitch in his pants.

Running a hand up Steve’s side, he licks at his skin. He tips his head, rubs his thumb over Steve’s ribs, and nearly bites his own tongue off when Steve yelps and jerks, knocking his chin. “Fuck, oh, fuck,” Steve gasps, squirming, and Bucky has to grab his belt loops to keep him from falling out of his lap.

As Steve’s full weight nearly topples off him, Bucky puts his back into it, hauling him forward until they’re chest-to-chest, nose-to-nose. “Careful,” Bucky murmurs, half-distracted by the wide dark of Steve’s eyes.

Steve stares down at him, his hands clutching at Bucky’s collar. “Fuck,” he breathes. “Fuck, you’re so strong. Jesus Christ.” He makes a deliberate shift, his naked cock lining up against Bucky’s clothed one, and starts to move with actual purpose, gasping against Bucky’s mouth as he does. Every muscle in his body seems coiled tense, the skin under Bucky’s hands practically trembling with it, and Bucky wraps an arm around his waist and presses him back with his other hand.

“Hold on, wait, hold on,” he says when Steve whines. “Just one minute. You’re making a real mess of my shirt, sweetheart.” If his ear hadn’t been so close to Steve’s mouth he might have missed the sharp intake of his breath, the little shudder that goes through him. Bucky would acknowledge it, but he really does need to get his shirt off—now that he’s noticed it he can feel himself sweating through the thing, feel the leak of Steve’s dick. Unbuttoning the collar, he nudges at Steve. “Sit back for a second, sugar.”

For an agonizing second Steve looks stunned; then he blinks and grabs the back of the chair, arching his whole torso away. It does something crazy beautiful to his skin, the long line of his body suddenly edged in the dim gold of the light over the sink, and Bucky clutches at his hips, not wanting him to fall again, already falling himself. Metaphorically, that is.

When it seems like Steve’s got his balance right, Bucky lets go of him so he can get his shirt off. Steve helps him with it, starting at the bottom buttons while Bucky starts at the top, and after a minute their fingers meet in the middle; Bucky sits up just a little to strip it off while Steve runs his hands over his belly, his chest, his shoulders.

“Ready?” Steve asks then, and when Bucky nods he leans close again, plasters them skin to skin. “Good, because—I’d really like your hand on my dick now. If you’re interested.”

“Yeah,” Bucky manages, strangled, and does what Steve asked, holding onto his ass with one hand, wrapping the other around Steve’s cock where it’s pressed flat to Bucky’s abs. Steve gasps again, slides his nose along Bucky’s as he lines up their mouths again. He even does most of the work, fucking into Bucky’s fist without him having to do much more than squeeze at strategic moments.

“Will you—” Steve says, his breath hitching.

Bucky kisses at his lush wet lips. “Will I what, sweet thing? Tell me what you want, beautiful.”

Steve’s breath and eyelashes go fluttery. “Will you put your fingers in me,” he whispers, lips just brushing Bucky’s, riding harder against him, his hips flexing under his hand. When Bucky’s dick twitches in his pants, Steve gives a breathy little moan, the tip of his cock smearing wetter, catching at Bucky’s belly button.

“The lube’s in the bedroom.”

Steve doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t sit back. “Just—just a little, then,” he says. “I just—just need—”

“Fuck.” Letting go of his ass, Bucky runs his hand up Steve’s side, his shoulder, his neck. He presses his fingers to Steve’s lips, which open immediately; he actually bobs his head forward, taking Bucky’s fingers into his mouth, sucking on them like it’s a dick. For a second Bucky considers turfing him from his lap, making him get on his knees and blow him right here—but Steve’d asked for something specific, and who is he to deny him?

He’s still rolling his hips forward into Bucky’s other hand, and it seems like his eyes are getting darker with each second, his cheeks flushing, so Bucky, despite how hot Steve looks sucking on his fingers, pulls them out, wasting no time in getting his hand down the back of his unbuttoned jeans and rubbing, hard, at his asshole.

Steve pants, clutching at Bucky’s shoulders, and Bucky watches as his head tips back, his body twitching between Bucky’s two hands. He gives a mewling little _oh_ , and comes just like that, spilling hot over Bucky’s stomach. God. Bucky’s dick aches where it’s trapped in his shorts, letting Steve ride out his orgasm here on top of him.

“That feel good, baby?” Bucky murmurs, hardly knowing what he’s saying, crooning at Steve as he melts down against Bucky’s chest. Steve hums lazily, mouthing at Bucky’s skin, and slides his hands over Bucky’s waist.

Working clumsily at Bucky’s fly, Steve sits up a little. “C’mon, I want it, can I suck you off,” he says, breathless, and Bucky’s a little shocked to see that Steve’s superdick is hard again, or never got soft, or who even knows. “You want me to blow you? And then you can, you can put it in me if you want.”

For a second Bucky actually feels lightheaded. “That’s sweet of you, darling,” he says, “but not everyone has a superdong. You’re only getting one or the other of those options tonight.”

Steve whines high in his nose, leaning close again. He rubs his hands up Bucky’s chest, briefly scraping his nails over his nipples, and nudges his nose against Bucky’s. His teeth nip at the very edge of Bucky’s lips, predatory. “I want you to fuck me,” he says, his voice so deep it’s nearly a growl, “and we’ll see if I can’t convince you to put it in my mouth after.”

Looking up at him, Bucky’s head practically spins. “You trying to kill me?” he asks. His hands are full of Steve’s ass, his nose full of Steve’s scent. Something about it all feels—right, in a way he’s not quite ready to confront.

A scant grin crosses Steve’s mouth. “Now how would that help me with what I want?” he says, and wraps himself around Bucky again to kiss him hard. “How about you carry me off to your bedroom now, huh?”

“Not happening,” Bucky says. His back twinges with a phantom cramp. “No goddamn way, sweetheart. No. My back won’t be able to handle it.”

“But,” Steve says, his hands spanning the breadth of Bucky’s shoulders, “you’re so strong, Bucky.”

“You trying to flatter me into it, sweetheart?” Bucky’s belly is hot, he’s so—so hot, so turned on; he sits up, still holding onto Steve’s ass, and bites at his earlobe. “C’mon, beautiful, how about we move this show into the bedroom?”

Steve doesn’t immediately move, his chest still plastered to Bucky’s, sweat-sticky; so Bucky unsticks one hand and gives him a little tap on the ass. Steve’s whole body twitches in his arms, and Bucky can actually see as goosebumps rise on the back of his neck. “Fu—ck,” Steve breathes. Bucky can actually feel Steve’s dick get wetter against the skin of his belly.

“You like that?” Bucky asks, because he can’t help himself, because his mouth likes to run without his permission, “I’ll give it to you again if you let me show you my bedroom.”

That seems to get Steve moving; he’s off Bucky’s lap in half a second, hanging on to Bucky’s hand as they head for the bedroom. Steve scrapes his nails down Bucky’s back as they walk, not sharp, just enough that Bucky can feel the lines of it. He doesn’t let himself look over his shoulder at Steve; he doesn’t think he could handle it, the swell of his lips, the pink of his nipples.

This is how he doesn’t notice until they finally make it to bed that Steve’s shimmied off his jeans somewhere along the way, his underwear; when Bucky turns from pulling back the blankets Steve is completely naked, standing there with the fingers of one hand laced through Bucky’s. He blushes when Bucky looks at him, but it doesn’t seem to stop him—he steps close, tips his head to one side, and his eyelids drop a little, just a little, seductively.

“How do you want me?” he asks. Bucky’s brain goes white for a very long second.

“I—how about—how about in the bed,” Bucky says, not because he’s lacking inspiration but because there are too many possibilities running through his mind to put voice to any of them.

A little smile crosses Steve’s mouth, and then he sidles past Bucky, taking care to brush up against him just barely as he crawls onto the bed, ass in the air and swaying. “Like this?” he says, giving Bucky a coquettish look over his shoulder. Then in one liquid motion he rolls onto his back, spreading his knees and running a hand up his dick. “Or like this?”

“Fuck,” Bucky says, which he thinks is pretty eloquent actually, given what he’s faced with. Steve grins; when Bucky kneels up on the bed and shuffles toward him, he sits up a little, enough to reach out for him.

Catching Steve’s hand, Bucky kisses at him, leaning over him, falling into him when Steve tugs. His eyes are so big, so blue, and Bucky takes a moment to kiss him, just until they’re both breathless. And then, because he can’t handle the look on Steve’s face, he kisses him again, and again, stretching out beside him until they’re making out like teenagers. Steve, hips shifting restlessly, practically claws at Bucky’s shorts until he gets them off, or at least partway down his thighs, enough that he can get Bucky’s dick out and wrap one hand around it.

Bucky’s breath shudders in his chest as Steve gets a little moan. “Yeah,” Steve mumbles, his breath warm, “yeah, fuck, this is gonna feel so good in me.” He gasps, teeth dragging at Bucky’s lips. “Lube?”

Sitting up just enough to dig the lube out of his bedside table and to leave his shorts on the floor, Bucky turns back to find Steve, legs spread, rubbing two fingertips slick with what must be spit against his own asshole. “You’re really trying to murder me, huh, sweetheart?” Bucky manages, taking the empty space between Steve’s thighs and leaning over him to chew at his nipples. The air goes out of Steve’s chest, hard, and Bucky nudges his hand out of the way so he can replace it with his own, sinking two fingers into Steve slow.

Steve breathes in, his hands finding the back of Bucky’s neck as he arches up against him. “That feel good?” Bucky asks, letting his voice slide low along Steve’s skin. He moans wordlessly, and Bucky can’t help but press his fingers in a little harder, a little deeper. Swearing, Steve’s fist clenches in his hair; he can feel his heartbeat in his scalp, his cock, his lips. “Fuck, Steve— _fuck,_ can I—”

 “Please,” Steve replies, dragging Bucky up by his hair so he can kiss him. His mouth is so wet, so hot inside; it’s making Bucky delirious. He’s forgetting about something.

“Condom,” he manages, breathless, and starts to sit up to reach for the bedside table again.

But Steve wraps arms and legs around him, flattening them together. His skin is sweat-sticky and warm like he’s been sitting in front of a fire, and Bucky grabs at him, unable to stop himself. “Don’t bother,” Steve whispers, his voice hot against Bucky’s ear. “Don’t bother, c’mon, please, I want to feel it, I want to feel you.”

_Fuck,_ that makes Bucky’s cock ache. “Jesus Christ,” he mumbles.

“That a yes?” Steve asks, and he gives Bucky that flirtatious look again, biting his lip and stretching his body under Bucky’s so their dicks slide together. He gives a rumbling little purr in his chest, hikes his thigh up against Bucky’s waist, and actually flutters his eyelashes. “Oh, it’s gonna feel so _good_ in me. Let’s go, Bucky. Put it in me.”

“God, you’re impatient,” Bucky says, but he appreciates it; he sits up so he can aim properly, rub the head of his dick against Steve’s ass. When he looks up at Steve his hands are lying prone next to his head, his whole body lax and glowing pink and gold. For a second Bucky’s chest actually hurts, he looks so beautiful, so sweet lying here in Bucky’s bed. Bucky feels briefly unworthy—but then Steve whines a little, tugs at him, and he leaves that feeling aside for now.

So Bucky gives it to him, gentle at first, sinking into him slow and easy. But then Steve starts swearing, a litany of gasped half-words in Bucky’s ear, and begging for it harder, faster—and Bucky can’t help but give it to him. He’s so tight inside, so hot, and Bucky can hardly think, can hardly breathe. It slams into him, how turned-on he is, how long he’s been hanging on the end of this tether, and he gropes at Steve, unable to stop himself, unable to hold onto that edge.

The world briefly goes white as he comes, but he can still smell Steve, still taste him on his lips. He finds he’s stopped moving; Steve’s breathing hard in his ear, gently running his hand through Bucky’s hair. Bucky kisses at whatever piece of Steve is in front of him—his wrist, and sits up a little, peeling his skin from Steve’s, and rolls his hips forward. It makes him twitch; it makes Steve whine.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he says, wrapping a hand around Steve’s cock, wet and pulsing hard. It makes Steve gasp, makes him wiggle, and then he’s shuddering and coming wet all over himself. “Look at that, yeah, look at you.”

Finally Steve reaches for him, pulls him close again so Bucky’s practically lying on him, and picks up his head so he can kiss Bucky hard and hot. They lie together for a long time, catching their breaths, lazily mouthing at one another.

“Fuck,” Steve finally sighs. “Fuck, you’re amazing.”

Bucky, yawning, hums and wonders how long he could lie here before he needs to get cleaned up. “Mm. I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

 

It’s the sound of a door slamming that wakes Bucky in the morning. He lies there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling while his brain comes back on board. His whole body is sore in the best way.

Finally he realizes that the silence in his apartment is the stillness that comes when he’s alone, nobody else in the place to make any sound, and that the closing door had been his front door. Steve’s gone.

He sits up, staring out the open bedroom door toward the foyer, annoyance building in him. They’d had such a nice night, at least he’d thought so. Clearly Steve hadn’t agreed.

Rolling himself up in the blanket, Bucky reaches for his phone, intending to text Natasha and tell her that her friend is a shithead, that he’s a complete jerkwad, that Bucky’s going to be alone forever and it’s her fault—

There’s a text from Steve, telling him he’s just gone for coffee and he’ll back in ten, and does Bucky want some specific pastry?

Without answering, feeling grumpy and also grumpy about feeling grumpy, Bucky tosses his phone back onto the bedside table without answering and rolls himself tighter in the blanket. He contemplates the ceiling and tries not to count the time.

It’s been four hundred and fourteen seconds when the door opens again and then shuts. Bucky doesn’t move, listening as Steve moves around in the kitchen and then comes down the hall.

Steve’s face comes into view leaning over him. “Morning,” Steve says, smiling, and comes closer to kiss Bucky. He’s pink all up the tops of his cheekbones. “Hi. Morning.”

“Hi,” Bucky replies. Now he’s grumpy at Steve because he’s ruining his bad mood.

“I brought you coffee,” Steve says, sitting on the edge of the bed so he can tug at the blanket and kiss Bucky for real, kiss him with tongue. “And a croissant.”

“I thought you left,” Bucky admits.

“Didn’t you read my text?”

Bucky glares. “Yes. Before that.”

Tilting his head, Steve nods. “I see.” He comes close one more time and kisses the tip of Bucky’s nose. He still wants to be mad, but Steve’s being sweet and he also wants to enjoy coffee and pastries with him. “Can I ask you something?”

The smell of the coffee is starting to get past Bucky’s blanket. He’s feeling a little more amenable to a mood change. “I guess,” he says.

Steve hikes a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the living room. “I saw my helmet on your coffee table. The one that’s all smashed in. Is there a reason you still…?”

Bucky’s ears go hot, then cold. He struggles to sit up. “I didn’t mean to,” he says, “I forgot about it—I meant to toss it the other day, and then I wasn’t sure if I could just put it in the trash, and then I put it down and forgot to deal with it. I’m not—I wasn’t being—”

“Um, it’s compostable,” Steve says. His blush is spreading over his nose.

“What?”

Steve clears his throat. “I break enough of them that—well, Tony decided it just. You know. It’s made of corn proteins.” Bucky doesn’t appreciate being lied to. He narrows his eyes at Steve, who holds up a scout’s salute. “Hand to god. You could boil that thing and eat it.”

Bucky makes a face; when he’d picked that thing up he’d gotten a whiff of the sweat stench inside. “Probably shouldn’t, though,” he says, and suddenly he’s howling with laughter, Steve too, the two of them falling against one another, several layers of the blanket between them.

Finally Steve sneaks a hand into the blanket, enough that he can tip Bucky’s chin up out of it and kiss him. “C’mon. Let’s go have breakfast.”


End file.
